Dark Souls: Sins of the Past
by Darkive
Summary: After centuries at his post, Ornstein has become numb and tired. But an unexpected visitor may be the key to him remembering his past, and deciding his future. A story about Anor Londo during the Age of Fire, and its decline into darkness.
1. Prologue

_Hey all, welcome to my first ever Dark Souls story! I'd like to say upfront that while I know a fair bit about Dark Souls, there are probably lore aficionados out there who know way more than me. So for those people, go easy on me—I might take some creative liberties here and there._

 _Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and don't forget to leave a review!_

 **Prologue**

Ornstein pulled his spear from the now motionless undead warrior at his feet. His resplendent golden armor gleamed in the surrounding torchlight of the cavernous cathedral that had been his post for years uncounted.

This battle had been brief—the undead had seemed ill-prepared for their fight, stumbling blindly into their lair without any semblance of strategy. It had been nimble though, diving and rolling out of the way of a few of Ornstein's attacks before finally being skewered and ravaged by the divine lightning that impregnated his weapon.

His eyes lingered on the body beneath him. It was such a small, pitiful thing. Its armor was old and rusted, its skin dry and withered beyond all recognition. Had it been a man? A woman? Why had it chosen to come here, of all forsaken places? Had it come with the intention of killing him, or simply wandered into their cathedral by accident? He found himself too numb to care.

It didn't really matter, in the end. Nothing mattered anymore.

Leaving the body behind, Ornstein turned to face the massive armored figure behind him. His rotund armor too was gold, though not nearly as well-kept, and his helm was crafted into the shape of a face locked in an eternal smirk. The figure lazed by one of the ruined stone pillars that had been destroyed during a fight long ago, resting nonchalantly on his gigantic hammer. Low, metallic laughter echoed from behind the smirking helm.

"This one put up no fight at all." The figure said, nodding in the direction of the undead. "Hardly worth our time, eh Dragonslayer?"

"We have been guarding this cathedral for ages uncounted, Smough." Ornstein said dispassionately as he flicked the blood from his spear. "Our 'time' is worthless."

"Heh, I guess that makes this little morsel _less than_ worthless, doesn't it?" Smough crossed the room to the body and turned it over with an armored boot. When he did, he grunted with clear disappointment. "Damn the gods; it's _hollow_. I was hoping from some real, living flesh to eat."

Ornstein's own lion-head helm hid his look of pure disgust. Smough had many qualities that made him detestable, but his insistence on eating the poor souls that wandered into their midst was the worst by far. He pointedly took a few steps away from his companion and leaned against one of the in-tact pillars on the opposite side of the room.

He watched as Smough removed his helm, revealing his massive, bald head. Two dark, beady eyes lay too close together on his round face, and his crooked nose sat above thin, worm-like lips. Holding his helm in one hand, Smough reached down with the other to effortlessly pick up the fallen undead warrior. He licked his lips and opened his mouth wide, revealing the few rotting brown teeth still left to him. "But it's as the clerics say; waste not, want not." He brought the undead's head to his waiting maw.

"Do that _elsewhere_." Ornstein said sharply. "I've no interest in watching you gorge yourself on the dead."

Smough paused momentarily before slowly lowering the body back to his side. His dark eyes flicked towards Ornstein as an oily smile crawled onto his face.

"Oh, a thousand pardons, milord!" He said, sarcasm thick on every word. "Have I offended your knightly sensibilities?"

Ornstein sighed inwardly. _This again._ Smough took every opportunity he could to needle Ornstein about his station as a knight under Lord Gwyn. Jabs about his "knightly sensibilities" were the most common, but over the centuries he'd been mocked for everything from his armor, to his spear, to the lion-crested ring he wore on his finger.

"Cannibalism is abhorrent, Executioner." He replied coolly. "You don't have to be a knight to know that."

Smough's smile only grew. He waved the body in Ornstein's direction, as if offering him a snack. "If you tried it, Dragonslayer, you'd understand. After a bite or two, you'll forget all about that 'chivalry' you love so much."

It had taken him awhile, but Ornstein had eventually concluded that the constant slights at his expense came not from mockery, but from some deep, long-held envy. Smough had wanted, perhaps even _still_ wanted, to be a knight; though Ornstein for the life of him couldn't imagine why. Gwyn was gone, his order of faithful knights had been gone for even longer. What was the point of being a knight of a dead lord in an empty world?

Ornstein let Smough's abuse slide off him. It had been many years since he'd cared enough to truly be bothered by the larger man's goading. "Never mind," he said tersely, "I'm going up to my quarters. Do what you wish."

Pushing off the pillar, he strode towards the immense stone stairway that lead up into the bowels of the cathedral. It was only a matter of time until Smough got bored and began his grizzly feast—better to leave beforehand.

"Suit yourself, _Milord!_ " Smough's voice echoed after him. "More for me, then!"

/

Ornstein entered a modest stone chamber he'd claimed as his on one of the higher levels of the cathedral. It was Spartan in nature, containing little more than a worn bed and a mount for his armor and weapon. There was a doorway on the opposite wall that lead to a small balcony overlooking the main hall which he quickly closed, lest any of Smough's… _noises_ find their way to his ears.

After depositing his weapon onto its mount, he sat on his bed and removed his helm, holding it in both hands. He hadn't seen his true reflection in centuries, but in the polished metal of his helm he could just make out the mane of short-cropped auburn hair that sat stark against his pale skin. He maneuvered his helm until a distorted version of his eye stared back at him. The gold made it hard to make out their hue, and Ornstein realized with mild surprise that he couldn't recall the color of his eyes. Were they grey? Perhaps green? After a few more moments of inspection, he gave up, placing the helm on its wooden stand.

Keeping the rest of his armor on, Ornstein lay back onto his bed, staring up at the familiar stone ceiling. He briefly contemplated sleeping, but ultimately cast the idea aside. The same curse that lay heavy on Lordran and kept death away also made things like eating and sleeping non-essential. So while people like Smough could _choose_ to eat and drink and sleep as they wished, they did so purely out of preference.

Ornstein had little interest in any of those things now. He never ate, drank water only seldom, and slept only if his boredom became unbearable. Most days, he simply stared at his ceiling, letting time slip past him in a sort of trance.

There had been a time when days like this had excited him; when an intruder wandered into their midst. It had lit a small spark of excitement inside him, and rekindled his purpose. He'd even felt the familiar rush from wars long ended on a few rare occasions. But given enough time (and there always seemed to be enough), even the occasional battles began to feel monotonous.

Now, all fighting did was stir up fragments of memory from the bottom of his mind. He'd remember a vaguely-familiar face, a few words of some conversation had lifetimes ago. They weren't true memories, just blurry visions, and they did more to remind Ornstein of all he'd forgotten rather than actually help him remember anything. He hated that.

It would be several days until he'd be able to settle his mind back into its thoughtless peace, maybe he could—

A sound from the main hall beyond his balcony made Ornstein sit upright in his bed. It was the telltale _creak_ of the massive front doors.

 _Two intruders, so close together?_ He thought, more surprised than anything else. It seemed that the number of adventurers attempting to pass through their cathedral had grown fewer and fewer as of late, so two in the span of a day was strange indeed.

Ornstein quickly put on his helmet and picked up his spear before opening to door to his balcony. He stepped out onto its small terrace, expecting to see Smough at the ready against some armored stranger, but instead was met with something else entirely.

It was dark in the hall, silver moonlight pouring through its high windows. This didn't surprise him, the days had a tendency to slip past faster now. What _did_ surprise him was Smough's absence. Had he not heard the door too? Deciding it didn't matter, Ornstein began to scan the hall for his challenger. He looked to the door, then down the hall itself, but saw nothing. Had he imagined it?

Just then, however, a new sound reached Ornstein's ears. A sound he hadn't heard in a long time.

 _Crying._

Hollows didn't cry, did they? They wailed occasionally, perhaps, but never _cried_. He tried to pinpoint the sound's origin, but the large, echoing hall made it all but impossible. Curious, Ornstein leapt deftly from his balcony and landed with a crash on the stones floor below. The crying stopped suddenly, as though the noise had scared its source into silence. Did hollows get scared?

Ornstein began to stalk the room, his spear at the ready. His curiosity was at its peak now. What sort of challenger cries and hides in the face of its adversary? He had almost made it all the way to the front of the cathedral when something finally caught his eye. A brief glimpse of white, disappearing behind a nearby pillar.

Ornstein adjusted course for the pillar, raising his spear into a striking stance. He wouldn't be caught with his guard down, should this be some kind of trick. As he got closer, he could hear the a faint whimpering sound.

 _You've given your position away too easily_ , He thought grimly. _And it will be your end._ In one blindingly-fast motion, Ornstein closed the distance between him and the pillar, rounded its side and drew back his weapon to deliver a killing blow…

A small figure sat huddled against the pillar, with its legs drawn up to its chest. A tangle of long, dark hair hid its face, which was buried defensively between its knees. It wore a plain dress of white, which nearly matched the pale skin beneath it. The figure's small frame, for too small to be a normal undead, shook violently.

Ornstein's spear lowered to his side as confusion overtook his senses. He dropped to one knee before the figure and reached a gauntleted hand towards it. His own size was huge by comparison, and the single finger he used to gently prod the thing's arm was several times larger than its shoulder.

Its head snapped up at the contact, and two large, deep-blue eyes stared at him, wide with fear. Its face was pale and round, with a small patch of freckles dusting the bridge of its petite nose.

It wasn't hollow. It didn't even look undead. And…

Ornstein pulled his hand away as if he'd been burned. Beneath his helm, his own eyes grew wide.

This was a _child._


	2. Chapter 1: Remembering

**Chapter 1: Remembering**

Ornstein stood in the middle of an old dirt road. Instead of his proud lion armor, he wore a ruddy suit of iron plate, a dull short sword secured to his waist by a length of rope. A small sack containing all his worldly possessions hung pitifully light over this shoulder.

The road before him stretched over hills and grasslands all the way to the horizon, where great grey Archtrees towered impossibly high and fog obscured the world beyond.

This was where he was going. Where he was meant to go. To war. To fight dragons with the very gods themselves. To glory. His eyes lingered on the horizon for a single longing moment before he glanced back the way he had come. When he did, Ornstein found two familiar faces staring back at him.

The first belonged to a woman with greying hair and a simple brown frock. Age had started to carve its lines into her forehead and cheeks, but her green eyes burned clear and bright with unmistakable pride. She gave him a small smile as she waved her handkerchief after him.

The second face was that of a young boy with light brown hair and dirt smearing his simple clothes. One of his hands was balled into a fist as it gripped the woman's skirt tightly, while the other attempted futilely to rub the wet streaks from his cheeks. There was no pride in the boy's eyes—just a raw, childish sadness.

Sadness? That couldn't be right. Ornstein was off to fight with gods, to become a knight. This was a time for celebration, not tears. Letting his bag slide off his shoulder, Ornstein knelt down in front of the young boy and ruffled his hair. The boy rubbed his eyes again with his sleeve, not meeting Ornstein's gaze. Ornstein smiled, moving to lift the boy's chin.

"Come now Adas, why are you crying?"

Something strange happened then. Instead of the dark eyes of the boy, two blue ones stared up at him, rimmed with tears. The boy's brown hair was gone too, replaced with long tangles of black. And instead of the familiar voice he'd somehow expected to hear, a high, quavering voice stammered back at him.

"P-please d-d-don't hurt m-me…"

/

All at once, the world crashed in around him as Ornstein's mind returned to the present. He was in the Cathedral of Anor Londo, his sacred spear in his hand, kneeling before a small, frightened girl. Beneath his golden armor, a cold sweat covered the back of his neck.

"W-what?" Ornstein croaked, feeling disoriented and confused. The child shuddered when he spoke.

"I'm s-sorry I was crying, s-sir." She said, barely managing to keep the fear from her voice. "I j-just don't know w-where I am, and…and…" the girl fell into hysterical sobs, retreating back between her legs.

Seeing this small, scared little thing shaking at his feet brought another long-forgotten emotion to Ornstein's mind—pity. He felt himself retreat from it reflexively, as though the feeling would poison him if he dwelled on it for too long.

He took a moment to steady himself before slowly reaching towards the child again. This time, however, he made a concerted effort to brush a finger down her arm as gently as possible. "Erm…there there, child." He said awkwardly. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Ornstein felt the child recoil from his touch, but otherwise didn't react to his voice. Was he really that terrifying? A dry voice in his mind quickly reminded him that he was, in fact, a giant man in a lion's head helmet who had only moments ago jumped out from behind a pillar brandishing a lightning spear. He felt his cheeks burn with unfamiliar heat as he realized his own foolishness.

Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "I beg your forgiveness, my lady." He said in his most remorseful tone. "It was very unknightly of me to jump out at you unannounced. Please allow me to help you, so that I may regain my honor." Ornstein planted the butt of his spear into the stone floor with a flourish and bowed his head a deeply as possible. If he was dealing with a child, perhaps acting like the knights from the fairy tales of old would make him seem less imposing.

To his immense relief, it seemed to have the desired effect. Slowly, the child's head rose to face him, one of her eyes hidden behind a curtain of black hair. She sniffled loudly.

"Y-you're a k-knight?"

Ornstein gave her a soft nod. "At your service." He waited patiently as the girl processed this new information, her eyes dancing from Ornstein to the floor between her bare feet.

"And you'll h-help me?" She asked at last, staring at the floor as she did.

"As much as I'm able, my lady." Ornstein lowered a gilded hand down next to the girl, his palm facing up. "May I take you someplace more comfortable? You'll catch a chill in this place at night."

The girl looked up from the floor to eye Ornstein's outstretched hand, which was nearly as large as she was. She reached out a tiny hand as if to touch it, before pulling away suddenly.

"You promise you won't…hurt me?"

A small part of Ornstein wanted to remind the little girl that if he'd wanted to harm her, it would have been done already; though he doubted that would do anything to help the situation. Instead, he merely shook his head, making the single red plume adorning his helm flutter behind him.

"On my honor."

That seemed to win her over, though it was still several minutes until she managed to work up the nerve to climb onto his outstretched hand. She shifted uncomfortably as she tried to wrap herself up within the folds of her white dress.

"Your hand is cold." She sniffed. Ornstein felt the ghost of a smile begin to form on his face—more than he'd managed in at least a hundred years.

"All the more reason to get you—" A sound from the other side of the large room chased the fleeting grin from him as quickly as it had come. It was a faint, thunderous beat of metal on stone. Great titanite feet on a slow ascent towards them.

 _Smough._

Ornstein stood quickly, causing the girl in his hand to squeak in surprise. He brought her close to his helm and saw a renewed sense of fear growing on her features. But there was no time for fear. Not now.

"You must stay silent until I tell you otherwise, do you understand?" He said, faintly registering that his voice had reverted back to its usual coldness. The girl's eyes grew wide as fresh tears threatened to overwhelm her, but she gave him a stiff nod. Ornstein returned the gesture before carefully curling his fingers around her, forming a small cage. He tucked this hand behind his back just as Smough's gargantuan form emerged from a large archway, his massive hammer in-hand.

"What's all the noise about?" The executioner asked, scanning the room predatorily. "Did my dessert wander into our midst?"

Ornstein felt the child begin to shake in his hand, but did his best to put her out of his mind. "No." He said tersely. "I thought I heard someone enter while in my chambers, but as you can see," he made a sweeping gesture with his free hand "I was mistaken." Ornstein released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when Smough visibly deflated.

"Shite. I knew two meals in one day was too good to be true." He let his hammer fall to the ground with a deafening _thud,_ cracking several of the stone tiles beneath it. "The first was all bone anyway—hardly worth the effort it took to chew em' up."

"Sorry to disappoint you." Ornstein said dismissively as he sidestepped towards his stairway. Bringing his curled hand in front of him, he turned to begin his ascent. "Good night."

"Hold a moment, Dragonslayer." Smough's voice echoed through the hall, and Ornstein stopped mid-climb.

"What is it, Executioner?" He snapped, concealing the tension he felt with annoyance. "I'm weary."

"The front door's open, _milord_."

Ice ran down the knight's spine as he stood motionless on the steps. He'd forgotten about the gods-forsaken door.

The doors to the cathedral were _never_ open. They were the first defense of their sacred post—all who had ever opened them had been met with a swift end, only to be closed again by either Ornstein or Smough themselves.

It was a foolish mistake—an oversight Ornstein would never have made in his usual state. But the appearance of the child had thrown him off, made him remember things. And apparently, forget others.

He drew in a deep breath, doing his best to recover the cold ambivalence he usually displayed towards his partner, before turning back towards the cathedral's hall.

"That was my doing," he replied, masking any emotion in his voice. "After I heard what I believed was an intruder, I found the hall empty. As you and I guard the only two passages forward, I thought the coward might have fled back outside." Ornstein let a small arc of lightning flash across his spear. "I opened it to cut down anyone lurking outside, but found it barren as well."

"You went _outside_ , Dragonslayer?" Smough said, disbelieving. "You, the one always prattling on about duty an honor?"

"Of course not!" Ornstein snarled, not needing to feign his annoyance this time. "Our oath binds us here. I looked outside, but I never set foot beyond my post." To mock Ornstein's honor was one thing—to accuse him of breaking it was quite another.

Smough seemed to realize this, and took an involuntary step backward.

"Steady on, Sir. I was only joking." He conceded with none of his usual cocksureness. Smough only ever called Ornstein 'Sir' on those rare instances he felt intimidated by him—a skill Ornstein was quietly grateful he still possessed.

"Do us both a favor, executioner;" Ornstein said frigidly. "joke less." He turned again and began climbing the stairs once more—swiftly bringing his closed hand to the front of him as he did. "Close that door, while you're at it."

It was only when Smough's distant grumbling about "giving orders" and a "knighted prick" had faded completely away that Ornstein released the coiled muscles in his shoulders. He brought his closed hand back up to his helm, slowly unfurling his fingers to reveal the small child, curled into the shape of a ball, her white dress pulled tightly around her tiny form.

"I'm sorry for that," he said quietly. "are you alright?" But the girl didn't answer, her face submerged into a sea of black hair. She began to shake again with quiet sobs.

Ornstein sighed. He'd spared this child, who was guilty of trespassing onto sacred ground, protected her from his sworn partner in arms, lied on her behalf, and _still_ she was frightened of him. What more could he possibly do? At a loss for other options, he continued to climb the winding stairs towards his private quarters.

/

It occurred to Ornstein the moment he closed his door behind him that he was woefully ill-equipped to care for a child. His room was devoid of anything even remotely suitable for a bed to fit her, and he realized that he had nothing in the way of food or clothing to offer her. He eventually decided on his pillow as the best temporary place for his new charge, as it was the softest thing he owned.

He lowered his hand onto his pillow, gently nudging to girl with his finger. "My lady, look. A nice feathered pillow for you. Much better than my cold hand, wouldn't you say?" The girl remained silent, save the occasional sniffling sound.

Ornstein remained still for a moment, sure that she would eventually calm herself down and climb off his hand herself. The moment turned to two. Then three. then five. A moment had always been insignificantly short to him—so why did these pass so agonizingly slow?

Eventually, his impatience got the better of him. With a slight incline of his hand, the girl tumbled downward, landing harmlessly, if not in the most dignified position, on the pillow below. There was a flurry of movement, her pure white dress moving stark against the aged bone color his pillow had grown into, until her mane of black hair was upright again. With a brush of her hand, the girl's blue eyes were glaring up at him, tears still fresh on her cheeks.

" _You're awful_!" she sobbed, looking more angry than scared. Whether that was an improvement, however, Ornstein couldn't say. "You're not a knight at all! You're…you're just some giant! Who kidnaps little girls!"

Ornstein felt momentarily stunned. He wasn't used to holding conversations—much less being yelled at. He moved his hand closer to her.

"My lady, I did not mean to—"

" _Don't you pick me up!"_ She squeaked, attempting to swat him away with a tiny hand. "You just want to drop me again!"

"I-I most certainly do not!" he said defensively. "I only meant to—"

"Just _leave me alone_!" she yelled, and with a huff, she turned her back to him, curling up again into her protected little world.

Several bilious words burned in the back of his throat, but Ornstein swallowed them back down behind clenched teeth. " _Fine._ " He said icily before turning on his heel and stalking out of his room, shutting the door hard behind him.

He walked through the upper levels of the cathedral, hoping the familiar setting would help put his mind at ease.

An hour later, he concluded it to be spectacularly ineffective.

Try as he might to divert it elsewhere, his mind doggedly returned to the child in his room. She was the first living soul Ornstein had encountered in the last thousand years, and already she was proving to be more trouble than he thought possible for something so small. For the first time since his appointment to the Cathedral, he'd placed something before his duty. And what had he received in return? A string of childish insults and what he was certain would be an unpleasant amount of snot on his pillowcase.

 _And what would you expect?_ A voice in his mind chided. _She's frightened, alone, and at the mercy of an armed stranger. How else would a child react?_

"I've no idea," he mumbled to himself. "I haven't seen a child in centuries. I didn't even think children still existed in Anor Londo."

 _Perhaps they don't,_ the voice replied. _You don't know where this child comes from or why she's here. You don't even know her name._

That last thought hit him like a hammer in the chest. How had he forgotten to even ask for her name? His anger began to cool into a cold sense of guilt. Perhaps he had forgotten more of chivalry than he thought. It certainly didn't help that most of his conversations up until today had been with himself.

Ornstein stopped walking to stare into the starless night that lay beyond the cathedral windows. He wondered briefly if the little girl with her bare feet and pure white dress had wandered through any of the unknown dangers that lurked in Lordran before ending up in his domain. Suddenly, a thought popped into his mind, and he took off running down the hall.

/

Ornstein reentered his room to find the girl unmoved from his pillow. She was still curled up with her knees around her chest, facing away from the doorway. He approached slowly, sinking to his knees as he did.

"Child," he said softly. "Are you awake?" The girl shifted, but still didn't turn to face him. "Child?"

"Go away." The response was almost inaudible from her guarded position. Ornstein sighed.

"I will go if you wish, but first I wanted to apologize. I…have not had to talk with new people for a very long time." He paused briefly, hoping the girl would respond. When he received only silence, he pressed on. "I fear I have been a poor host thus far, and if you would allow me to—" Ornstein removed his helm, setting it on the top of his armor mount. "—I'd like to try and start again. I am Ornstein, Knight of Gwyn, and Guardian of the Cathedral of Anor Londo." He bowed his head slightly. "Truly, at your service."

The sound of his helm being removed must have piqued the girl's curiosity, because Ornstein saw a single blue eye peek out from beneath her black hair. Seeing a flicker of hope, he continued.

"Might I ask for your name? I'm assuming it isn't actually 'child.'"

The girl sat up slowly, facing Ornstein but not meeting his gaze. She brushed a lock of hair out of her face.

"Elara." She said softly. For the second time that day, Ornstein found himself wanting to smile.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Elara. Are you hungry?"

Elara's eyes finally flicked up to meet Ornstein's. "You have food?"

Ornstein winced. "In a manner of speaking." He rummaged around in the small leather pouch he kept at his side. "There are few who have need of food in Anor Londo now, and fewer still who would use their time to make it. But I found this growing on the side of the castle's wall by one of the windows." He produced a clump of soft green plant matter, which looked comically small in his giant hand. He held it out close enough for Elara to take it.

Elara, however, merely scrunched up her nose.

"It's moss." She said matter-of-factly. "Moss isn't for eating."

"Not traditionally, perhaps." Ornstein said sheepishly. "But I assure you it's edible. I've even heard that it helps to prevent poisoning."

Elara spent a moment prospecting Ornstein's offering before reluctantly taking a handful. She placed a tiny portion into her mouth, took a few exploratory chews before swallowing with a pained look. She stuck her tongue out. "It's bitter."

"I…will try to find something more palatable for you." Ornstein conceded as he took a seat on the other side of the bed.

Ornstein sat in an uncomfortable silence for a time as Elara continued to take reluctant bites from the green clump in her hands. How was he supposed to put this child at ease enough to learn anything? In one night, all he'd managed to do is frighten her and feed her something he found growing on a wall.

"Chil—Elara," he began awkwardly. "I was hoping you could tell me; why were you in the Cathedral tonight?"

Elara's blue eyes flicked towards him for a moment before focusing intently on the moss in front of her.

"Was I not supposed to be?" She asked stiffly. Ornstein could hear some of the fear return to her voice.

"Oh, no no. I didn't mean—you did nothing wrong, my lady." He lied, "What I meant was, what brought you here? Anor Londo doesn't often attract…visitors."

 _Living ones, anyway._

The fear in Elara's eyes receded and was replaced with something Ornstein couldn't identify. Putting the moss aside, she pulled her legs up to her chest.

"I got lost."

He'd assumed as much. It seemed the only logical explanation for a lone child to find their way into the city of the gods—but it didn't explain how she'd managed to find her way here in the first place.

"I am sorry to hear that." He replied patiently. "Where were you heading before you got lost?"

"I'm…I'm not sure."

Ornstein knew the question he had to ask next, but he feared he already knew the answer.

"Elara…where are your parents?"

She didn't respond, but the truth was clear in the way she pulled her legs tighter into herself. Ornstein felt another twinge of pity as Elara's story painted itself across his mind. Foolish mortals bringing their child to a city not meant for them, filled with dangers they could not hope to protect her from. It was a depressingly familiar story, one he'd seen played out countless times before Anor Londo ever fell.

Ornstein knew he should try to console her somehow, assure her that all would be well. But offering comfort had never been a skill of his, and whatever semblance of experience he'd once had withered away long ago.

So instead, he rose from the bed and strode towards the door.

"I'm sure you're tired, I'll give you your privacy while you sleep." Ornstein had the door open and was a step out into the hall before he heard a small voice call out from behind him.

"W-wait!" he turned to see Elara staring up at him with something close to desperation. "Don't leave, please." Ornstein sighed, stepping back into the room and closing the door.

"Very well." He returned to the bed, taking a seat next to the tiny child on his pillow once more. A tension in Elara seemed to disappear when he did so. She laid down and turned towards him.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you before." She said quietly.

"You needn't apologize, lady." He replied. "This night has been trying."

Ornstein had meant it empathetically, but in his ears, he could hear that it was true for him too. Elara pulled at the loose, threadbare casing of his pillow over herself as a makeshift blanket.

"Please, could you stay with me, until I fall asleep? I don't want to be alone." Looking towards the bundled figure on his pillow, Ornstein nodded.

"I can." While comfort was beyond him, standing vigil was something he had an abundance of practice in. "No harm will come to you while I am here, I swear it."

Ornstein could sense the last of Elara's apprehension leave her at his words. Safety offered its own sort of comfort, he supposed, even if it wasn't the type of comfort the girl needed at the moment.

"Thank you." She said, staring up at the giant knight with heavy-lidded eyes. Her exhaustion had finally caught up with her. She continued to stare at him for a moment or two before she spoke again. "You know, you're much less scary without your helm." She said in a voice slurred from sleep. "The green of your eyes is very pretty."

Ornstein felt something inside of him stir. He had green eyes—how could he have forgotten? Something about the thought unnerved him, and so he pushed it away.

"Rest now, child." He said softly. "We can speak more when you wake, if you wish."

Elara yawned, closed her eyes, and pulled the pillowcase tighter around herself. Ornstein sat beside her as she drifted off to sleep, staring at the wall opposite him in silence. For once during his eternal watch, he was grateful for his time alone with his thoughts.

He had much to think about.

 _The end of chapter 1! I apologize to those who read the prologue of this story a thousand years ago, a lot of wonderful, but time-consuming things took up my writing time. But as I settle back into relative normalcy, I hope to have the next chapter out soon. See you all then!_


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